There was a moment’s heavy pause, before Patrick Honeyman rose roaring to his feet. ‘Bread?’
‘It looks like one of yours,’ James Edie put in dryly. ‘For at least, for certain, it is not one of mine.’
It was a peculiar irony, reflected Hew, and a particular misfortune, that the loaf that Giles had brought up from the kitchen as his prop had chanced to bear the stamp of Patrick Honeyman.
‘You misunderstand me,’ Giles responded hurriedly. ‘I do not mean to say it was your bread . . .’
He offered too little too late, for the cry had already rung out, ‘He says it is the baxters, the baxters who have poisoned us!’
Giles protested faintly, ‘I do not say that at all.’
But the room was in an uproar. He had lost control.
Chapter 14
A Wrong Foot
As Honeyman loomed dangerously, Hew’s eyes were drawn to the far side of the room, where a group of students passed from hand to hand some object they kept hidden underneath their cloaks. Hew could not tell what it was. It came to rest at last with George Buchanan, who accepted it reluctantly. He stood a moment, wretchedly, and held the object close, until his friends propelled him forwards and he opened up his hand. Hew watched the drama build, a series of small incidents impressed upon his mind, like the vague reflections of a dim and distant dream, which bore no sense or meaning for the present place or time. George Buchanan lifted up his arm, and launched his missile – later, it transpired, a Honeyman bread roll – in a perfect arc, before the words of warning could settle on Hew’s lips. And for a second, as he threw, the boy’s glance crossed with Hew’s, an actor’s comic mimicry of horror, guilt and fear. The bread roll rose and soared. It struck the bailie Honeyman, even as he glowered, his grim and heavy menace coming close to Giles. Honeyman fell forward with a little grunt. He staggered to his feet, and turning with a roar, felled the man behind him with the full force of his fist. A second man rose up to answer for his friend, and knocked the fleshy baxter whimpering to the ground. And in a heartbeat, all the baxters fell to pummelling, as fierce and heavy battle broke out in the hall. George stood pale and gawping at the carnage he had caused. Benches were upturned, and someone seized the lectern from the stage to hurl the whole thing bodily, clean across the room. Andrew Wood withdrew his sword, and blustered ineffectually. He was not heard above the din. A rain of bread and buttons showered above the hall, collected from the lining in the students’ coats. The students and the baxters fell out into the night, and spilled onto the cloisters beneath the gaping moon, where the battle ranks split up and gathered strength. Close combat had commenced, between the college and the town.
‘Make fast the gate and keep them here, and I will fetch the guard,’ panted Andrew Wood. The students stormed the dormitories, and from the upper windows scattered ink and books, pouring out the water pots onto the green below. From the kitchens, they emerged with sacks of flour and eggs, and the baxters were anointed with the raw tools of their trade, baffled and bewildered by the cloud of wheaten dust, lashing out and thundering, thrashing left and right. They were a steady match for the sheer, delighted fury of the boys. The fight was stilled at last, by the return of Andrew Wood with soldiers from the garrison, and a single, bitter pistol shot, blasted at the moon, that blew away the clouds that hung above the square. The students and the baxters stopped and stood aghast, their floured and bloody faces ashen in the gloom.
Andrew Wood said brusquely, ‘I will rout these people out into the street, if you round up your students.’ The baxters were dispersed, and the college gates were closed once more upon the night.
It took a little time to gather in the students, and settle them again into their former groups. Beneath the dirt and bruising, restless faces shone, exhausted and exhilarated in their battle lines. Hew sent Bartie Groat for cloths and bandages; the mathematician fluttered round the close, like an agitated moth trapped inside a lamp, and as little use, thought Hew. ‘Dear, dear,’ said Bartie weakly, ‘it cannot do us good to be standing in this air.’
‘We shall stand here,’ answered Hew, ‘until all are accounted for.’ He saw no sign of Giles.
Gradually, the roar died down. The students clustered meekly as the scale of their delinquency began to dawn on them. A hundred watchful eyes were turned to Hew. The regents reported, ‘All found, except for George Buchanan and Professor Locke.’
Hew suppressed his fear, calling through the ranks – impossible, it still seemed, not to think of them as troops – ‘Has anyone seen George Buchanan? George?’
A student answered meekly, ‘I do not think, sir, that he left the hall.’ He spoke it in the Latin, anxious now to please. The words seemed strangely comical against his flour-stained face. They were boys, not savages, thought Hew. ‘Take them to their rooms,’ he ordered his regents, and see them safely settled for the night. Our inquest on this matter will keep until the morn.’
As the students trooped to bed, quiet and subdued, Hew went back to the hall. All the lamps but one had been extinguished in the fray. The one remaining light was set upon on the floor, to cast a gloomy commentary upon the doctor’s face. Giles knelt there in the dust, like a penitent at prayer, before the lifeless form of George Buchanan.
‘Dear God,’ Hew whispered. ‘Is he dead?’
‘He was not breathing when I found him. He draws breath again, though he is not yet sensible,’ Giles spoke, dull with weariness.
‘Then you have restored him to life.’
‘I have restored him,’ Giles agreed, as though he found no comfort in the fact.
He placed his right hand tenderly beneath the student’s head and raised him from the ground.
‘I cannot see a mark on him,’ said Hew.
‘His hurts are deep within. He fell here by the door, and was trampled upon by the crowd. This arm is broken, as I think.’ Giles was on his feet now, with the student in his arms. The boy lolled back upon the doctor’s shoulder, yet he did not stir, as if he was the smallest bairn, or Matthew, in his swaddling bands.
Giles said, ‘I will take him to my house.’
‘Giles . . .’ Hew began.
‘Do not say it, Hew,’ his friend pleaded earnestly. ‘I pray you, do not say, that this was not my fault. I will take him to my house, where Meg will nurse and care for him. Can I leave you, to see to things here?’
‘For sure. The students are dispersed, and sent off to their beds. The house is quiet now.’
‘And no one else is hurt?’
‘Cuts and bruises, nothing more,’ said Hew. ‘Sir Andrew Wood has gone to vent his wrath upon the town. I heard him vow to make examples in the marketplace. Yet he will find it difficult to put to good effect. The bailies were complicit in the fray. I saw the minister himself lash out and floor a college macer who had trodden on his gown. It will occupy the sheriff for a while, before his close attentions are directed back at us.’
‘As no doubt they will be, in due course. This poor boy! I did not apprehend the whole place was a tinderbox. God help me, Hew! To think that I held out a loaf of bread before a room of baxters, and told them that was what had made the sailors sick.’ Giles groaned.
‘To be fair,’ reasoned Hew, ‘that was not what you said.’
‘It was what they understood. And what else, after all, should they understand, by such wanton showmanship? It was pride, pride, Hew! I thought it was so clever, and so subtle, and ingenious! God help me, I did it with bread. And the outcome of my vanity is grave for this poor little boy.’
George indeed looked like a child, nestled in the doctor’s arms.
‘Yet George was not blameless in this,’ noted Hew.
Giles stared at him. ‘Not blameless? Of course he is blameless! He is in my care, and under my authority.’ He turned away, trudging from the hall and down towards the Swallow Gait, without another word. Hew stood to watch him go, each anguished step made heavy with the burden of the boy.
A calm had fallen on the co
llege, rooted in despair, as the students lay awake, and wondered what the dawn would bring. The cloisters were littered with debris: eggshells and bread crumbs, sharp shards of pottery, the remnants of a chamber pot, its contents still intact. The servants were alert and watchful at the gate. One of them undid the locks to let Hew pass. ‘All quiet, sir?’
‘All quiet now. I will be in the tower, if I am wanted here. Wake me, at the slightest sound.’
‘Do you expect more trouble, then?’
‘It would surprise me, to hear more of it tonight. Nonetheless, do call me, if you have concerns.’
‘The kitchens are concerned that there is no flour, and likely no more bread for the students’ desjones, sir. We cannot hope our order will be filled,’ the porter pointed out.
‘Then they must go without. The fast may concentrate their minds on the rigours we have doubtless yet to come. If you hear complaints, refer them back to me,’ instructed Hew. He hardly noticed that he had assumed command. Yet the college mustered gladly, and bowed to his authority.
The garrison had done its work, and applied its sanctions through the town, with a ruthless, clear efficiency that left a solemn silence in its wake. The North Street was deserted, but for a solitary sentry, by the turret tower. To Hew’s astonishment, he saw that it was Maude. ‘What are you doing here, and at this hour?’ he confronted her.
‘I came to hear how Jacob died. They would not let me in. They said it was for men,’ said Maude. For four hours she had waited there, and kept her quiet vigil on the threshold of the college, while battle raged within.
‘Aye. I’m sorry for it, Maude. It is our rule,’ Hew explained to her. ‘Yet you were well away, for there has been a fray tonight, a tumult and a brawl you would not care to see. You would have been ashamed of us.’ And to see her there, sad, concerned and vexed, for Jacob, who had died a stranger in her house, he felt ashamed himself that it had come to this. Maude was worth the lot of them, he thought.
‘I heard,’ admitted Maude. ‘There was a wee bit stirring in the street. The garrison have had their hands fu’, for the baxters are a force that do not grumble quietly. James Edie said it was the bread,’ she ventured suddenly.
‘Aye, it was,’ admitted Hew. It was the bread, in every sense, that started the affray.
‘Then I am to blame, sir,’ she blurted out.
‘Why are you to blame?’ asked Hew.
‘I gave him bannock I had baked. It was not baxter’s bread. It was the same bread, sir, you ate yourself, when you came for your dinner with the fish. And you did not turn sick, sir . . . yet, James Edie said . . .’
‘No, no,’ he reassured her. ‘James Edie has lied to you, or you misunderstood. The bread you gave to Jacob can have done no harm. Whatever ill befell him, happened on the ship.’
‘You mean I did not kill him, sir?’
‘Of course you did not kill him! Put it from your mind!’
Hew slept fitfully, and was awoken shortly after five by the rumble of a handcart in the street. As soon as it grew light, he rose and dressed, returning to the gate. ‘All peaceful here?’
‘No news. The cloisters have been cleared and swept. The regents called the students from their beds at five, and set them on their knees for an hour of prayer. They went to it like lambs.’
‘Good work. Then bid them watch them close, and keep them to their task. We shall have no tumult in the hall today. I shall spend the morning with Professor Locke.’
‘Then are we to feed them? Or make them go without?’
‘Do you have the wherewithal?’ asked Hew.
‘It seems, sir, that we do. The bread arrived this morning. Seven steaming baskets, full of good, hot wholesome bread.’
‘It is not poisoned, I suppose?’ Hew considered sceptically. The porter grinned. ‘That did cross our minds, too. The bread comes freshly baked, and free of charge.’
‘Surely, not from Honeyman?’
The porter shook his head. ‘It comes from James Edie, sir, and with the baxter’s compliments. A gesture of good will.’
It was evident to Hew, arriving at the Swallow Gait, that Giles Locke had not slept. However, he attempted a weak smile. ‘The boy is out of danger. The bonesetter has been, poor bairn; that was an ordeal for him. His sister Clare has come to sit with him. She has asked for you.’
‘Why would she do that?’ Hew was conscious of the flutter in his heart. He felt that Giles must sense it too.
‘As it seems, she trusts you.’ Giles ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture of defeat, and utter weariness. ‘God knows, that there can be no reason why she should trust me.’
‘She has every reason,’ contradicted Hew. ‘You saved her brother’s life.’
Giles did not reply to this. ‘She sat with him all night.’
‘How could she have known to come?’ Hew asked.
‘Her husband told her. He was at the meeting. It is safe to say, that he is not best pleased.’
‘The college and the town are both at peace,’ said Hew. ‘The winds blow fresh, and light again. Perhaps it was required, to clear the heavy air.’
Giles answered hopelessly, ‘This storm brings devastation in its wake. And now I must resign my post, as principal and visitor.’
Hew exclaimed, ‘Do not do that!’ Before he could say more, the door behind them opened, and Clare Buchanan came into the room. ‘Professor Locke, my brother is asleep. And your good wife is kind enough to sit with him, while I go home to rest, and change my clothes. Your pardon, Master Cullan,’ she said quietly to Hew. ‘I thought . . . I hoped . . . that I had heard your voice. I wonder if you would consent to walk with me a while? I feel a little raw, and bruised, to step alone into the sun, at the close of such a dark and melancholy night. Do you think that strange?’
‘Not at all,’ insisted Hew, touched to have her confidence.
‘You are so very kind to me. As you, Professor Locke, are kind to George. To bring him to your house, and treat him with such care. I know not how I can repay the debt, for if I give you all I have, it could not mean as much to you, as this has meant to me. With all my heart, I thank you for it.’
‘There is no debt,’ Giles answered hoarsely. ‘For I am at fault.’
‘You are not at fault,’ said Clare. ‘In truth, you are more blameless than you know, and we are more to blame. And as I understand it, it was Andrew Wood, who stirred this melting pot. Whoever brought the baxters through the college gates must surely be to blame, for some worlds set apart are never meant to meet.’
Hew felt astonishment at what she seemed to know. He thought of Meg, in her confinement, and Henry Cairns’ wife, and Maude, left standing patiently outside the college gate, and wondered by what secret art, such women came to know the world.
‘I will return,’ Clare promised Giles, ‘this afternoon.’
‘Aye, mistress, do,’ the doctor answered listlessly. ‘I will keep George at my house until his bones have healed. He shall not risk the tumult of a horde of boisterous boys.’
‘You are too kind. I pray you, walk with me,’ she said again to Hew.
‘Gladly,’ Hew said awkwardly, and followed to the door. ‘Where is it you are going?’
‘Nowhere,’ Clare confided. She was lovely in the light; the sun began to dapple in her hair, and though she had not slept, her face was fair and fresh. Her eyes were dark and watchful, and he found he could not look at her. ‘How does your brother now?’ he asked.
‘I thank you, he is well . . . at least, not well,’ she answered truthfully, ‘but the better for your sister and the good Professor Locke. Your sister is quite lovely, is she not? I dare to hope I might become a friend to her.’
He dared to hope it too. ‘I think it very likely you are almost the same age.’
‘A woman does not like to speak about her age,’ she chided him. ‘How old is your sister?’
‘Meg is one and twenty.’
‘Then almost the same age,’ Clare confided with a smil
e, ‘for I am twenty two. Poor George,’ her thoughts grew darker. ‘He has had to endure the visit of the bonesetter, and that, I confess, was a hard thing for him. As it was for me.’ Clare fell silent for a while, before she ventured, ‘I think that you must know, sir, what I want to say to you.’
It took him by surprise, so that for a moment he was not sure at all, although he knew, had always known, at heart.
‘And what is that?’
‘My brother, sir, is in such dreadful pain. As he lay weeping through the night, he confessed the truth. He told me what he did.’
Hew stilled her, with a look. ‘Then do not speak it, Clare. For if you tell me what he did, then I may have to act upon it.’
‘He knows you saw him do it, sir. You do not need to lie for him,’ said Clare. ‘And though it can be no excuse, he did not know the trouble it would cause.’
‘I know that he did not.’
‘He does not ask for pity, for he knows that he did wrong. I have no right to ask it. Yet I do implore you, if there is a way, to keep this matter close within the college walls; then do not tell the coroner; do not tell Andrew Wood, that it was George who started the affray.’
‘As to that, you have my word,’ said Hew.
‘Your kindness, then, is more than we deserve,’ Clare answered quietly. ‘I thank you, sir, with all my heart, and bid you make the matter known to Doctor Locke, for he has been so good to us I could not bear to break my brother’s confidence. It is a want of courage on my part. I understand of course, that George must be expelled.’
‘I will put this matter to Giles Locke, and since I know the workings of his heart, as I do know my own, I can tell you now, what he will say,’ said Hew.
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